Blogging... Five years in... The Sailboat...

(Dear Reader:)

Keeping a digital diary is very modern, but five years ago, in 2011 I started blogging just to try it out. Not thinking anyone would read my posts, it provided a channel for me to practice writing and find a voice for deeper expression. Also, as the supervisor of school communications, it was an experiment in social media: the Head of School thought Twitter was the coolest thing going, but wouldn't know a "weblog" if it rolled in front of his shiny grey Camry. The New Rostra was my own, and my impression is that many artists don’t create for their audiences until much later in their journey. Blogging allows the writer an intersection of their thoughts and lives; sometimes in juxtaposition, like my partner does here with her art and a diagnosis of breast cancer:

www.theartofcancerblog.wordpress.com

Origins
As I finish 5 and ½ years of blogging and this 142nd post, looking back, I see the same kinds of topics initially placed on the Blogspot® “Profile”: fiction, politics, religion, sports, culture, books, movies, wine, and basic “lifetime” story-telling which has attracted almost 46,000 site visits. Even in today’s fast paced social media society, some of my longest posts are the most clicked; nevertheless I am still surprised when a stranger takes the time to read and comment on what I’ve written. It's fun hitting the “Publish” key after spending time and effort writing a post; however, it is also rewarding to think that a reader out there relates to what you’ve written (agree, disagree, like, dislike, but just read it). This is not a Writer's Manifesto or a Declaration of Blogging Independence, but I'm sure that nowhere else can you sear ideas onto a page like a weblog. Twitter's 140 character limit is a ceiling, a natural filter, so it is on the New Rostra where I explore in depth those thoughts most captivating. 

Building the Machine
Through blogging I’m encouraged to write more, even attempting chapters which might someday be cobbled into a book. There’s a lot of fiction stirring around in my brain if I can ever find time to put it down in short chunks. As I’ve read two (well-known) best-selling authors' latest novels this month, it occurred to me that books are written one chapter at a time, like building a brick wall, brick-by-brick. There’s no magic to it—work is required, and continuity, flow, and character development must be consistent throughout; but a story is made like our lives unfold, one-day-at-a-time. These simple truths do not break any ground to anyone who writes, but blogging reinforces this reality.

Talking w/ Charlie Rose on 11/23/2016, Jon Stewart said about the challenge of developing his long-running Daily Show, which I'm comparing to the art of blogging:

“Would we be able to develop a process, within the inherent juxtaposition of a creative pursuit; which is to say, can we build a machine that is redundant enough, and rigid enough that it can sustain inspiration, improvisation, and creativity?” (end quote)

Dark Doubt
Like a dark enveloping cloud of dense fog, doubt seeps into a writer’s brain, and we tell ourselves there is just no use! No one will read this crap. Who has the time to go to your blog? Aren’t you glad you don’t feed your family doing this? Why would anyone believe anything you put down in writing, who do you think you are?… And so on. Since I’m not trying to leverage my website into advertising income, I don't fight the anxiety of caring (or needing to care) if anyone really visits. If writing posts is my "business", then I’ve lost the love of the work, giving up amateur-status (from Latin amator ‘lover,’ from amare ‘to love.’). Blogging is in some ways about Love. Without being critical of professionals, amateur-status for me, is like the force that makes the sailboat move across the ocean. From tracking site statistics, it is apparent that the more one writes, the more people visit, and the more passionate the topic, the more clicks the post receives. The love of the work, the frequency and passion with which it is done are important, and data has proven this at the New Rostra.

Obstacles
Allow me to admit that sometimes I don't know whether I'm lost or found; I lose the power to write, adrift without creativity (but this is not a investigation into the paradox of "writer's block"). So many topics and issues are on my mind, often I can't sort them out - the cup overflows. With the freedom to sail anywhere across the vast ocean, the writer must not veer off course; but instead, making tacks and turns throughout the plot, one must chart a course and find their destination. Along the way the cutter loses power, “in-irons” as the "doldrums" are called out on the sea. These doldrums, where doubt steals the usefulness of the sails, can only last awhile; soon the writer is back on her way, inspired and moving along with the winds, as if catching one’s breath. As in life, writing is a process, a task, a habit, which must be supported and practiced on a regular basis or it gets atrophied, slow, or even stilled. Doldrums can mean the loss of momentum: even though this blog is a priority, sometimes I can't summon the passion or motivation to write. It's OK to wait, and let curiosity build.

Tomorrow's Sunset
So, as the sun sets on another year of blogging, I'm looking forward to what next year brings?! I'm counting on numerous topics to power the canvas sails. Thank you to the reader, and a salute to all bloggers who think, feel, and post. Keep up the good work... Sail on!

Keeping my tradition of posting a music video to accompany my blog post:

Ben Rector -- "Sailboat"  https://youtu.be/rRyXY4oo21A

This song illustrates the writer's plight, we often feel like a sailboat... 

benrectormusic.com

The New Rostra©Mark H. Pillsbury

Q: (So how's your job going, Mark?)  A: (can I answer like a writer?)

I saw this excerpt in a book about writing by Annie Dillard. It's a story told about an old man living on a small, rustic island on the Northwest corner of Oregon near an inlet with a strong current... Here's where we pick up the story:

"One evening," the man (Paul) told me, "Ferrar saw a log floating out in the channel. It looked yellow, like Alaska cedar; he hoped it was Alaska cedar. He rowed out to see it."

Everyone on the island scavenged the valuable logs, for building. If the logs did not wash up on the beach, it took a motorboat go get them in; they were heavy in the water.

"It was high tide, slack.  Ferrar saw the log, launched his little skiff at Fishery Point, and rowed out in the channel. Sure enough, it was that beautiful Alaska cedar, that pale yellow wood, just a short log, about eight feet, or he never would have tried it without a motor. I guess he thought he could row it in while the tide was still slack.

"He tied onto the log" (such logs often have a big iron staple hammered into one end) "and started rowing back home with it. He had about twenty feet of line on it. He started rowing home, and the tide caught him."

(From Paul's window, I could look north up the beach and see Fishery Point. One of Ferrar's sons still used that old rowboat-a little eight-foot pram, now painted yellow and blue. Paul's blue eyes caught mine again)

"The tide started going out, and it caught that log and dragged it south. Ferrar kept rowing back north toward his house. The tide pulled him south down the strait here" (Paul indicated the long sweep of salt water in front of his house) "from one end to the other. Ferrar kept rowing toward Fishery Point. He might as well have tied onto a whale. He was rowing to the north and moving fast to the south. He traveled stern first. He wanted to be going home, so toward home he kept pulling.”

“When the sun set, at about nine o'clock (late for northern latitude), he'd swept south the length of this beach, rowing north all the way. When the moon rose a few hours later-he told us-he saw he'd swept south past the island altogether and out into the channel between here and Stuart Island. He had been rowing through those dark hours. He continued to row away from Stuart Island and yet continued to see it get closer.”

"Then he felt the tide go slack, and then he felt it coming in again. The current had reversed.

"Ferrar kept rowing in the half moonlight. The tide poured in from the south. He kept rowing north for home; only now the log was with him. He and his log were both floating on the current, and the current was bearing them up and carrying them like platters. It started getting light at about three o'clock that morning, and he rowed back past this island's southern tip.  The sun came up, and he rowed all the length of this beach. The tide brought him back on home. His wife, June, saw him coming; she'd been curious about him all night."

Paul had a wide, loose smile. He shifted in his chair. He raised his coffee cup, as if to say, Cheers!

"He pulled up on his own beach. They got the log rolled beyond the tideline. I saw him a few days later. Everybody on the island knew he’d been carried out almost to Stuart Island, trying to bring in a log.”

“Everybody knew he just kept rowing in the same direction. I asked him about it. He said he had a little backache, but I didn't see the palms of his hands."

Paul looked into his empty coffee cup, pleased, and then looked through the window, still smiling. I started to carry my coffee cup to the sink, but he motioned me down (sit down!). He wasn't finished.

"So that's how my work is going," he said. What?

"You asked how my work is going," he said.

"That's how it's going. The current's got me. Feels like I'm about in the middle of the channel now. I just keep at it. I just keep hoping the tide will turn, and bring me in." ##

[portions excerpted from The Writing Life, ©Annie Dillard
(1989 Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc.)]